Life & work in Dhaka

Why we came up with the idea of making our own yogurt escapes me.  Perhaps the subject arose as I’ve been buying sour curd as a substitute for the natural variety I used to eat every day back home in England.  Either way Bishwajit said he knew how to make yogurt and the project was born. 

He started the very next day, showing me a neat little set of six bone china cups, still in their cardboard box, that he had acquired from somewhere ages ago. These, he said, were perfect. I still couldn’t see it myself. Then, after work he produced a two liter plastic water bottle that he had washed thoroughly.  It was when he explained that this was what we were going to use to carry the fresh cows milk from the dairy that I sat up, started to take notice and really listen to what he was saying.

I suppose I should have known better.  Bishwajit always does what he says.  He’s supported me in every way I’ve asked for help since I started work and we became colleagues at the same NGO. So now, here we were walking down Aurangajeb Road keeping a lookout for a rickshaw to take us to a Dairy Farm…in Dhaka city?  Many stopped, but all declined.  Most didn’t know where exactly we wanted to go and those that did weren’t prepared to take us. Eventually someone agreed and very soon I found myself traveling through a part of the city that was new to me. 

Late afternoon and early evening is always manic, as rush hour creates even more congestion than usual. It didn’t take long however for us to leave the busier roads and bump our way through some of the quieter back streets, eventually joining one of the main routes leading out of the city. This was both busy and dusty, its traffic consisting mostly of buses and lorries heading in and out of Dhaka city. 

Buildings thinned out and through the gaps I could see the smoking chimneys of the brick works up ahead. Low squat slums lined the sides of the road with goats and cattle wandering freely.  I was hit by the stink of pungent rubbish as we cycled past workers emptying the small metal containers they pull through the city streets collecting waste from flats and shops.  An occasional vehicle speeding by created a dust cloud that we collided with.  Choking and stinging when it hit our faces we held our breath, closed our eyes and bowed our heads for the few moments until it passed.  Dust here is like grit elsewhere.

We continued through the city slum.  People were shocked to see me here, and I was shocked to see their circumstance. Both parties dumbly stared back at one another. I had forgotten I was in a rickshaw until Bishwajit instructed the driver to pull over at the side of the road. His relief was evident, the sweat running from his face, his clothes sticking to his body.  He was told to wait until we returned and seemed more than happy to do so. He clearly needed a rest and it was unlikely he would pick up another fare easily this far outside the city. 

I recognised the familiar smell of fresh milk before I’d taken more than a handful of steps down the short dusty path leading to the dairy. My mother grew up on a farm and as a child myself, from a young age, I had watched many times, fascinated, as cows were milked by hand. 

We found several men sitting together in what constituted a mixture of living quarters and farm shop. They immediately poured us a small glass of hot, sweet black tea, and made us welcome.  As is usual in Bangladesh, I was almost instantly offered a stool to sit on, and made myself comfortable within moments of arriving. We were here to buy fresh cow’s milk to make yogurt, so Bishwajit got straight down to the business of fixing us a really good price.

Bishwajit haggling at the Dairy Farm

I sipped my tea and waited a while, these things take time. The process of agreeing a price between the local population is far more in-depth than we visitors could possible hope to sustain. 

I left the haggling to Bishwajits expert hands, and drifted outside. Peering through a mosquito net strung up across a small doorway I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Inches away several enormous black cows quietly sat, chewing gently.  I slipped behind the net to stand inside a vast cowshed.  Cattle were in the process of being milked, the white frothy liquid collected in shiny metal pales before being pooled together in a larger bucket standing next to my feet. Several tiny calves looked over curiously from where they stood, tethered close beside their mothers.

Inside was surprisingly cool, especially considering the soaring temperatures outside. I stood entranced for minutes: that I was here in the middle of all this I found amazing. Bishwajit joined me. Having finaly agreed a price we waited for our container to be filled, the water replaced by fresh milk, produced only moments before.

Armed with 2 litres of cows milk and a small terracotta bowl of their home made yogurt which we needed to culture the production of our own, we returned to our waiting chariot, the rickshaw driver now fully rested and ready for the homeward journey.

These days, when the electricity goes down I’ve taken to fleeing the flat. With our ceiling fans out of action temperatures soar, often above 36 degrees. The heat and humidity become unbearable, boredom sets in and bad tempers are never far behind. It’s often cooler outside where you can catch the occasional breeze, so, within reason (women aren’t advised to wander alone at night) and depending on company I’ve tramped the streets for miles, but my friend Bishwajit has just changed all that by taking me to sit next to Dhanmondi Lake.

I knew there was a lake, I’ve been over its bridge on a rickshaw traveling to New Market a couple of times, but I didn’t realise it was as close, and I didn’t know how to get to there. It’s so well hidden behind buildings I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I followed Bishwajit across the busy road minutes away from my flat, turned down a dusty little pathway…and there it was.  

The surrounding trees absorbed most of the noise of the incessant horns coming from the nearby road, a direct consequence of having such heavy traffic and no highway code. There were only a few people around and those that were strolled, not bustling as they do on the packed Dhaka pavements and topping it off the walkway was in really good condition, unlike the mess of rubble and potholes along the side of every other Dhaka street. The trees offered shade from the sun, still strong at five thirty, their leaves accentuating any slight breeze, giving the illusion it was cooler than it actually was. Heaven, and so accessible!

The lake itself is a fair size and as we walked it opened up further, reaching around a corner and out of sight up ahead.  The opposite bank was a fair distance away, where I could see more people enjoying the environment.  Young couples clearly came here to meet and sit side by side on the bank. With an eighty percent Muslim population Bangladeshi courting couples do have restrictions but it’s fairly common to see young people walking together or sharing a rickshaw.

The water was clear and still and I became aware of a beautiful smell wafting around, reminding me of Jasmin.  Bishwajit pointed out the water lilly.  Only growing around the edges at first, it had, within a short distance completely covered the surface of the lake.  Not yet fully in flower it promises a glorious sight when the hundreds of heads open up and the scent should then be much more powerful. 

Further along we came across a peanut seller.  A fairly common sight, they carry shallow disc like wicker baskets which hang around the neck holding neatly piled peanuts and a red looking salt, along with tiny metal hand scales and small paper cones. At ten taka for a fair sized serving they make a tasty and cost effective snack which I had no intention of resisting.  

Walking on we looked for a suitable spot to sit and shell the nuts, and settled for a small wall on the bank overlooking two fishermen and a sleepy dog, their old Honda motorbike parked nearby. We watched as they fished, using a rod and line they sat patiently, the dog snoozing in the grass.  Their skill was evident as they had already caught a fairly large fish which they kept inside a small cage positioned just below the surface of the water.  From time to time he splashed about in his confinement.   

We shared the peanuts, Bishwajit rolling them in the red salt, a mixture of sea salt, papaya and chilli,  but I ate mine without, finding the taste too strong.  Darkness falls suddenly in Bangladesh and within minutes daytime had given way to evening and the stars came out.  We walked back the way we had come, simply because it was quieter and sat again for a little while underneath a mango tree where the breeze was glorious. Nobody is in a hurry to rush back to a hot dark flat. 

While the  tree bore fruit mango aren’t  currently in season and it will be a further month before the local produce is for sale.  Imported Indian mango is available but everyone here believes that too many chemicals are used and they avoid buying them.  Bishwajit also holds the view that the local mango are far superior, both in size and taste, so I’m keen to try them.

On the way home we stopped off to do a little shopping in Nandons supermarket.  Spotting mango in the fruit and vegetable section I persuaded him to teach me how to select the best ones.  As he doesn’t rate either imported fruit or eating out of season his advice was to wait, but I won the argument and so he helped me select four. Bishwajut used smell, colour and feel to dig out the tastiest, and we ate two each on arriving back at the flat.  They were absolutely gorgeous, so if the local mango taste better than these I can harldy wait!      

Bishwajit shelling peanuts by Dahnmondi Lake

I knew  there would be electricity cuts, but I didn’t expect as many so often.  Around the clock, neumerous times a day power goes down, usually for an hour a time but occasionally for longer periods. Known as ‘load-shedding’, it’s purely due to excessive demand and not the result of poor infrastructure. Either way Bangladesh just can’t cope and it makes living here even harder than usual.   

It was bound to happen.  Huge numbers of people pour into Dhaka every day and buildings are going up everywhere you turn. But this is more than simply the cities demand for power, it’s also due to the impact of environmental change.  Almost on a weekly basis the Power Ministry make decisions about who gets what, sending their instructions to the DPDC (Dhaka Power Distribution Company) who are responsible for service delivery. It’s then down to them to manage the shortfall in demand and divide the available supply between both the urban and rural population as instructed.  A big factor for consideration at the moment is boro farming (a type of rice) which is in season as the success of this crop now depends heavily on an electricity supply to support it’s irrigation system as envirnmental change has increased temperatures and the effects of the burning sun takes it’s tole, thanks to the hole in the Ozone.  

Typical daily demand in Dhaka city is 2000MW, one day this week our allocation was 1200MW.  As load-shedding manages the shortfall, electricity supply moves around the city, being switched off in one area and at the same time restored in another.  This picture is repeated country wide.  The Power Division, who recently opened a control room to monitor the situation reported a total generation of 3377MW over a peak period against a demand of 4200MW.  However as with most things in Bangladesh there are many differing opinons with experts believing the typical realistic shortfall is more likely to be much higher. Meanwhile Bhutan has offered its surplus supply to Bangladesh to help ease the situation, but so far they have declined and a deal has not yet been done. 

According to the locals there’s worse on the way as typically summer season weather conditions creates further interruptions in supply.  We can expect massive thunder storms, strong winds and the heaviest monsoon rain anywhere in the world.  The reality of living under these conditions is obvious and the result of the impact exhausting. It isn’t only your physical discomfort but the pattern of life which changes, forcing you to adapt your activity, dictated by supply.  The enormous reduction in what you can achieve is crippling.  I’ve found myself washing clothes at one in the morning and even then had to finished off by candle light.

Staying awake at work has become a real challenge.  Early afternoon I struggle to keep my eyes open despite working in an air conditioned office.  These cool conditions are ideal to stretch out and drift off, and being deprived of sleep the night before due to the stifling humidity can’t be ignored.  As my concentration starts to wander and my eyes refuse to stay open the wicker sofa in the corner poses a huge temptation. I’ve tried walking around to wake myself up but open the office door and the huge leap in temperature and crippling humidity causes me to wilt and I sweat immediately. In-spite of this I usually make my way to Bishwajit’s office as he works alone.  It might however be the hottest place in the building due to the huge photocopier in the corner.  Either way he has a comfortable chair positioned under a fan in which I snooze for ten minutes or so while he continues to work quietly away. I had tried tucking myself away in reception but this proved too public as passing colleagues mistook my exhaustion for illness resulting in a lengthy explanation and reassurance that I was only tired.

Dhaka residents have two options to combat the electricity shortfall if they have the taka to pay for it.  Firstly hooking up to a generator managed by their building.  Although they aren’t available in every block of flats it seems most do now have them installed.  The first thing you hear all around when the power goes down is their motors kicking into action. They supply enough power to run a couple of fans and strip lights and cost around three hundred taka a month (three pounds) but in reality the heat, pollution and noise they pump out only adds to the general discomfort of living in the city. The second choice is IPS: Independent Power Supply.  The range of choice is dependant on strength of power and units are costed accordingly, starting at around the 10,000 taka mark (hundred pounds).  Fitted professionally they charge themselves automatically and also power a couple of fans and strip lights for up to two hours, but they offer a more environmentally friendly option being cleaner and quieter to operate.

Most office workers in Bangladesh work a six day week, but some NGO’s follow the five day model set by Government ofices, with Friday and Saturday constituting the weekend.  The remainder of the population work every hour they can, from one end of the week to the other.  We’ve noticed a pattern has emerged, with Friday, the holy day, typically having markedly less interruption.  We look forward to the weekend, and Friday in particular even more so than usual as we typically experience only a couple of cuts throught the day.

Looking out from my fourth floor bedroom window I can see baskets balanced on the heads of many men and young boys. They queue in the heat of the midday sun, waiting their turn to tip bricks and cement they’ve slowly hauled up the bamboo ladders of a building site that suddenly sprung up a couple of doors away from my Dhaka flat.  Then, bare footed they carefully make their way back down again for more. Having only lived here for a couple of months I was taken by surprise.  It appeared as if from nowhere and grew rapidly to this current hive of activity.  I do occasionally catch a glimps of a bright yellow hard hat, but mostly this consists of low tech hard labour…and lots of it. 

It’s strange looking out over a building site so high up and I mourn mildly for the view about to be snatched away, but in this city nothing is static, you must take life as it comes.  Within Lalmatia where I live regeneration is exclusively residential.  You don’t have to venture far however to find huge commercial complexes and foreign banks being built, cheek to jowl with the typical jumble of tiny run-down retail cubicles that offer a vast array of goods and services, ranging from street food to tailor shops.

We have been warned to cross the road before passing large building sites as bricks and debris are regularly and casually thrown down, and I have read about several pedestrian deaths reported in The Daily Star, a Bangladesh English language newspaper (www.thedailystar.net).  I’ve yet to work out which poses most risk however, masonary falling on my head or being mown down by crazy traffic while crossing the road!

Every night, as I sit out on the balcony trying to keep cool during yet another electricity black-out, I spot a battered old yellow lorry trundling slowly down our road.  It parks up in the street outside the entrance to the building site, the driver immediately throwing the bonnet open to cool off the overheating engine.  It’s packed full of loose bricks and half a dozen labourers, who leap out to start the  unloading immediatly by hand.  Stacking the bricks expertly in a huge neat pile, the re-supply is made ready for the day shift, who start work the next day at seven am. Then, the following morning I watch as those same bricks appear, transported up the ladders in many head baskets, ready to raise the building even higher.

A brick chipping machine, women normally do this by hand  

It was a bad night last night.  Things kicked off around 1.30am when we were woken by a real commotion taking place in the street outside our flat.  With noise was so loud and persistent we got out of our beds and went onto the balcony see what was happening.  The street was well lit, and the scene that met us was horrifying.  It took a few moments to fully comprehend the enormity of what was going on.  An organised mob, roughly ten individuals, were systematically beating a man with a large, heavy wooden club.  Onlookers stood around the fringes watching the violence. Their victim wore lungi and was bound at both wrist and ankle.  He lay helpless on the street as the club was raised, ready for yet another blow. Instinct suddelnly kicked in and we started shouting for them to stop, to leave him alone. 

They paused for a moment to look up and see who had interrupted them, then resumed as before.  I’m not sure exactly what kind of reaction we were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.  As heavy blows rained down we heard additional shouting coming from the balcony of the flat above where some of our volunteer colleagues live, but this also fell on deaf ears. We realised we were helpless to stop the attack, but if it continued the likely outcome was murder, literally taking place on our doorstep.  Panic set in, while all around our neighbours sood silently at their windows watching the horror taking place below.

By now things were looking pretty grim for the victim.  As persistently as we tried the brutal beating continued.  One neighbour standing only feet away in the darkness of his forth floor balcony quietly told me to stop shouting as I would anger the mob.  I asked him why nobody was calling the police to stop this. There was no reply.

We decided to take action. Not having either the telephone number of the local police station or the language skills if we had, we called the VSO 24 hour emergency helpline to ask them to call the police on our behalf.  One of VSOB’s main responsibilities is volunteer safety while in-country, so with hindsight I suppose their response was pretty predictable, but it infuriated us the time. We were instructed to get off the balcony and stop shouting immediately, to go back to bed, VSOB would discuss it in the morning.  That wasn’t going to cut it for the victim of a prolonged and brutal assault so we escalated our appeal to the VSO Country Director only to recieve an identical response. 

Below us things had reached a critical point and we feared the worse was about to happen.  The club was raised high, and with no other options available I shouted again, this time trying to contain my panic and fear and using as much authority as possible. They paused, I continued.  There was a little confusion this time around.  A brief discussion ended with a clear decision to move the victim, who was roughly pulled up onto his feet and shoved towards the entrance of the nearest building, a garage directly opposite our flat. With his restraint only allowing a pathetic shuffle he made his way slowly through the door.   

Although out of sight we could hear the beating began again with the awful sound of the club repeatedly making contact. We fell silent, wincing and cursing occasionally, but mostly standing in silence, all eyes fixed on the garage, alone in our shock and helplessness.  In the background we could hear the long whistle blasts let out by local security guards protecting the resident flats where we live – the Lalmatia district of Dhaka city.  Using this method they alert each other when unidentified individuals are spotted in the area late at night. Working together they can track the progress of anyone drifting around the streets that they don’t like the look of .   

Eventually, one by one the onlookers left the scene but with the garage lit up we could still clearly see the silhouetts of two remaining men visible through a small window.  Their activity continued for several hours. At five the Imam approached, stopping in front of the garage.  Holding a conversation for several minutes with those inside he pointed up to our balcony a number of times before making his way on to the Mosque to call the morning prayer. It was impossible for us to know what to make of this.

The remainder of the early morning passed, all activity died away and there was no sight of the beaten man.  We couldn’t help but linger on the balcony, still waiting for him to emerge I suppose.  At 7.30 I telephoned my friend and colleague Bishwajit to let him know I’d be late as I would come to the office after the VSOB meeting.  On hearing what had happened he came over immediately by rickshaw seeking out the local security guards and our neighbours to find out exactly what had taken place. He then sat us all down and started to explain.

The man we had seen being beaten was a suspected thief who had been apprehended by the security guards in the surrounding buildings.  There had been a spate of thefts over the past couple of weeks and this equates to tough consequences for them.  Initially they are forced to pay for the cost of any stolen items, often continuing to work without pay until this is done, and then they lose their job. Believing they had caught the culpret their anger and bitterness was evident.  The beating was partly venting this frustration and partly a warning to any other prospective thieves that they would be dealt with harshly if they stole from their buildings.

Rickshaws are absolutely everywhere.  A customer on board and they whiz by with purpose, empty they cruse the streets. Their pace of speed renders them fairly easy to hail and with the driver also on the lookout for a fare you always seem to be only an arms reach away from a clutch of them almost anywhere in Dhaka. ‘Jaben?’ this, your initial enquiry, in a nutshell means ‘are you for hire?’  The usual response? A tiny nod or inclination of the head.  Pulling up and stopping next to you the transaction continues to unfold.

And so on to the next step,  telling the rickshaw driver your destination.  Occasionally, with a slight shake of the head he declines and gently pedals away, no explanation given, but this also happens to the locals in equal measure.  And this before the fare has even been discussed so it’s not a matter of money or that he doesn’t like the look of you. Driving a rickshaw is hard physical labour, so the judgement is formed based on the impact your proposed journey would have on his current physical condition coupled with the particular time of day: it’s harder driving during the height of the mid-day sun.  But more often he agrees, tipping his head toward the rickshaw seat inviting you to climb up.

And now you have to make a decision as there is divided thinking between haggling first and agreeing the fare before getting underway or hopping in, making your journey and paying the driver on arrival.  Myself, I firmly fall into the former camp having arrived too many times at my destination only for the rickshaw driver to start protesting that the fare is too low and demanding more taka.  Mind you this can happen even after he has initially accepted the haggled price, agreed on some occasions only a matter of minutes before.

So, you haggle, with your success depending not only on how advanced your Bangla language skills might be, but in the main on your ability to play act, and especially to call their bluff. And where this is concerned less is definitely more!  As a bidesi (foreigner) the price is always premium and most of our haggling is not really done to obtain a competitive price, just to get as close to what the locals pay as possible. Knowing what the price should be isn’t always as easy as it sounds but as Dhaka is so huge most of our longer journeys across the city are taken by CNG so on these shorter rickshaw journeys even if you are ripped off it’s important to remember we’re only talking small change.  That said funnily enough it isn’t so much about the money but more a feeling that you’re functioning and integrating within your new society that matters most, that you are being taken seriously and not for a ride (metaphorically speaking!)

Koto taka? You’re asking him to quote for your journey, which I say while gazing distractedly down the road and never looking straight at the driver. While you would naturally expect their pitch to start high, exactly how high is your first point of reference regarding how feasible this rickshaw is going to be.  Five taka over for a short journey normally costing around the fifteen to twenty mark is simple, agreeing the price is almost polite and very straightforward, rarely will they refuse to drop as this is exactly what haggling is about. Ten to fifteen above and I know that expectations are high for a bumper fare and my usual response in these cases is first the raised eyebrow, then…widened eyes, next comes a frown  all without a word of response.  Then after appearing to consider for a moment or two I simply say ‘Jaben na’, I don’t go’, turn around and walk away. In most cases but the very hardened the response is immediate and they call you back, binning the silly quote, immediately accepting the sensible one and I climb aboard.

Hauling yourself up into the rickshaw while laden down as you inevitably are with laptop and shopping bags isn’t an easy maneuver in itself! Then there’s ‘three in a rickshaw’ which has a seating technique you most certainly have to build up to.  As simple as it looks I have actually seen locals tumble out so when you consider the combination of spectacularly rutted roads and mad crazy traffic you’re going to want to cling on fairly tight as there isn’t a seat belt in sight! 

There’s so much dust around at the moment that the more considerate drivers fix the hood up before getting underway, but once you’re off you bump along down impossibly uneven roads with any sudden stop leading to an impact from the rickshaw behind.  This often cuases arguments to flair up between rickshaw pullers which I’ve christened rickshaw rage.  Passengers sit passively while the drivers tell each other what they think about their poor driving, although there are absolutely no rules of the road to contest.